


Lieutenants and Handkerchiefs

by francefrancerevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Sickfic, enjolras is self conscious, he's also a kitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francefrancerevolution/pseuds/francefrancerevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras hates getting sick; it makes him weaker and takes away his dignity, and he sounds like a damn kitten when he sneezes. But his friends don't mind, because it gives them the rare chance to show how much they truly care for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lieutenants and Handkerchiefs

i. _white, trimmed with yellow and embroidered with flowers_

The bookshop was small, cramped, dusty, and Jean Prouvaire was right in his natural habitat. He slipped between the rows, slender enough that he didn’t have to turn sideways to fit between the tight rows, running his fingers across the spines until they were lightly coated with dust and smelled like old paper. This was nothing new for Jehan, who usually smelled like ink and paper anyway, coming to the Musain with the remains of his poetry-writing sticking to his hands. Occasionally, his fingers would stop on a certain spine, and he would call out “oh, this is such a fine work!” to no one in particular, or whisper poetry, not even having to crack open the book to know the words inside.

Jehan in his natural environment was a beautiful sight, and Enjolras hated to interrupt it, but he needed to leave. He couldn’t breathe in here. He didn’t recall every having allergies triggered by dust, but apparently he did, because his throat and nose wouldn’t stop itching. His teeth were clenched tight, because he was afraid to cough or sneeze and wreck the serene quiet of the bookshop and Jehan’s intimacy with the books.

“Jehan,” he said, finally forcing himself to unhinge his mouth. “This is nice, but I thought we were going to visit that printer you mentioned?”

“Hmm? Oh no, I realized about an hour ago that the printer I mentioned closes his shop early on Wednesdays. If we wanted to catch him, we should have been there by now.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then why are we here?’

“I thought that as long as I had you out of the café and your lonely apartment for the day, I might as well take advantage of it and take you to some of my favorite places in Paris. Some beauty and adventure might do you some good.”

Ignoring Enjolras’ protests, Jehan continued to dance through the aisle, leaving Enjolras, literally, in a trail of dust. “Come on, Enjolras. Just pick up a book you think looks interesting and sit down in the stacks and read for an hour so. Even you can’t enjoy that. There must be something about Robespierre in here, somewhere.”

“I’d rather not—” Enjolras started, before the itching in his nose intensified and he had to pinch harder.

“Enjolras?” He hadn’t even realized he was squeezing his eyes shut until he had to open them to see Jehan. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve had to sneeze for the last twenty minutes.”

Jehan arched an eyebrow. “And you haven’t yet why?”

“I sound stupid when I do.”

Jehan sighed loudly and went back to the poetry book he had been skimming. Enjolras went back to rubbing his nose. Until Jehan suddenly whirled around, slamming shut a large book of poems in Enjolras’ face so the dust wafted over him.

“What?” Enjolras asked, before the itching got so bad that it hurt and he sneezed into his hands and he suddenly realized exactly what Jehan had done. “Jehan!”

“You do not sound stupid, Enjolras. You never could, and whoever told you that you could ever sound stupid is so horribly wrong.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, before sneezing again and realizing that Jehan was wrong. He did sound stupid. His sneezes were too high-pitched, too damn squeaky to sound even remotely manly. He wasn’t sure what the sneezes of an inspiring revolutionary leader were supposed to sound like, but he was fairly confident that they weren’t _squeaky_.

Enjolras reached into his coat pocket for a handkerchief, just wanting to blow his nose and get out of the bookshop and hide for a while. His fingers only brushed the bottom of his pocket.

“Here,” Jehan said, somehow using his poetic signals to sense his distress. He took a handkerchief out of his own pocket, handing it to Enjolras. It had flowers on it, and Enjolras paused, wondering it was too beautiful to wipe his nose with.

“You can keep it, too,” Jehan continued. “You need some flowers and color in your life, I believe.”

“It looks like something a romantic poet would die coughing up blood into.”

Jehan grinned. “Are you coming down with something, or is it only the dust in here?”

“Just the dust,” Enjolras said, even though his throat had been scratchy since that morning and his hands were freezing. “Either way, I should head back to my apartment. I have some things to work on.”

“Of course. We can go to the printer tomorrow after the meeting. Take care of yourself, Enjolras.”

Jehan watched him hurry out, covering a cough with his hand and muttering a tired goodbye to the shopkeeper. Jehan stayed, because the bookstore was nearly his home after all, and he still had some poetry to finish reading. But he couldn’t shake the image of a dying Enjolras hacking up blood into his flowered handkerchief. It was all too easy to picture.

* * *

ii. _dirty white, with a stain looking suspiciously like blood_

“I know you’re the boxer and I am not, but I believe that you’re supposed to hit me.”

            “I’m afraid I’m going to break you,” Bahorel said, grinning. Had it been Grantaire or Courfeyrac, Bahorel would have throw them to the ground already. But Enjolras . . . when Enjolras had asked for boxing lessons, Bahorel had nearly laughed before realizing he was serious. Enjolras had one of the sharpest minds he had ever witnessed, and bravery, and fierce loyalty, but he also had the skinniest wrists and delicate fingers, and that pale skin that would surely bruise.

            “I’m not a porcelain doll.”

            “Ah, but you’ve got a face like one, and it would be a shame to mess that up.”

            “You sound like Grantaire.”

            “But you like that, don’t you?”

            Enjolras made a indignant huffing sound, swinging a punch at Bahorel. He simply stepped neatly out of the way.

            “So that’s what it takes to rile you up! As long as the National Guard stands in front of us and yells comments about how you smile at Grantaire when you don’t think he’s looking, we’ll win any battle for sure.”

            Enjolras tried another hit, and Bahorel grabbed his arm.

            “You’re flailing.”

            “I don’t _flail.”_

“You’re flailing, and you’re going to hurt yourself worse than you could ever hurt me. So stop, and let me show you some basics.”

            For the next half hour, Bahorel was the one doing most of the work, showing Enjolras how to move and hit, but Enjolras was the one who felt out of breath. There was a tightness in his chest, rising to his throat, and with every cough he tried to stifle, his throat only clenched worse.

            He was only half-focusing on Bahorel’s lecture, and when he leaned forward to cough, Bahorel’s fist nailed him right in the face. It wasn’t a hard punch, clearly not intended to hurt, but he stumbled back into the wall anyway, rubbing at his chin.

            “Merde!” Bahorel said, running to his side and tilting his head back to look at the forming bruise on his chin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I asked if you were ready to practice some and you nodded and then you leaned forward, I’m sorry.”

            Enjolras forced a smile. “It’s fine, you don’t need to apologize. You never regret anything, so I know you were honest from your first apology.” He slipped to sit on the floor as the coughing got worse, resting his head on his knees.

            “Are you sick?” Bahorel asked. “Enjolras, you should have said something.”         

            “I’m fine,” he wheezed between coughs. “Just out of breath.” He wondered how many more excuses he would have to come up with before someone called him out of it. He wondered how long he could lie to himself, like he did this morning when his throat was sore and he could barely lift his head, and yet he told himself that it was nothing. Just leftover dust from the bookstore, just out of breath from boxing.

            He kept coughing until his neck hurt from leaning forward and his eyes were wet with tears.

            Bahorel laughed, but kept one hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles. “No one leaves boxing lessons with me without tears in their eyes.”

            “Shut up.”

            Bahorel produced a wrinkled handkerchief from somewhere, handing it to Enjolras so he could wipe his eyes and get rid of the single tear that had, embarrassingly, made its way down his cheek. The handkerchief smelled like sweat, and had a pink stain in the center. Enjolras eyed it closer.

            “Bahorel . . . is this blood?”

            Bahorel chortled, folding the handkerchief into Enjolras’ hand. “You can tell people it is. Keep it, as a souvenir as surviving your first day of lessons.”

            Enjolras almost gave it back, thinking he didn’t want a sweat-stained piece of cloth, but then he thought about how it would look next to the handkerchief from Jehan, which he had put on top of his dresser. Flowers and embroidery, blood and sweat. Those handkerchiefs showed how different all his friends were, yet he still loved them, and they still loved each other.

            “Thank you,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. He coughed again. “Although, if it is blood, do you really want me taking away a remnant of a fight which I’m sure you won?”

            Bahorel helped him to his feet. “I’ll have a replacement by this weekend, I’m sure.”

* * *

iii. _with a name written in pink across it_

Enjolras woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and such an intense pain in his sinuses that he wanted to tear his face off. But, even as bad as it was, he would have thought he would have heard Courfeyrac let himself in and start making breakfast in his kitchen. He hadn’t, and when he saw the figure in his kitchen through his sleep-bleary eyes, he almost threw something at them before they held up their hands, calling “it’s me! in a tone way too cheerful.

            “What are you doing here?”

            Courfeyrac feigned offense. “Why can’t I simply come over and make breakfast for my dear friend?” Under Enjolras’ skeptical expression, he sighed. “All right, all right. Jehan was worried about you, so I’ve been instructed to come make sure you’ve alive and well.”

            “I’m alive.”

            Courfeyrac frowned. “You sound stuffy. Do you have a cold, or is your voice just starting to sound like your personality?”

            “It’s a slight cold. Do not worry about me.” Enjolras slumped into the chair Courfeyrac pushed out for him, rubbing at his temple. “Since when do you speak to Jehan outside of meetings?”

            Courfeyrac grinned mysteriously. “We went for a walk in Luxembourg Garden yesterday.”

            “Just the two of you?”

            “Well . . . the two of us, and my date for the evening.”

            Enjolras nearly groaned and threw Courfeyrac out of his apartment. This was too much to handle. He couldn’t tolerate Courfeyrac and his love life antics on a daily basis, doing so with a pounding head was going to be even worse.

            “. . . he showed up halfway through our walk in the park. He must have been out smelling the flowers and writing poetry. And I, of course, went over to talk to him, and kissed his cheek and told him he was looking radiant, and that’s when Florence pulled me away. She said, and I quote, ‘you seem to be more interested in you are in him than you are in me!’ And I told her that of course I was! Jehan writes poetry, while all she does is talk about the new dresses she’ll be getting this weekend. So she threw her handkerchief at me, and left in a huff, and I rejoined Jehan and had a much lovelier evening.”

            “Congratulations,” Enjolras said dryly.

            Courfeyrac took the handkerchief from his pocket, laying it on the table in front of them. It had the name Florence on it, and Enjolras wondered if Courfeyrac was trying to collect the alphabet in the names of women whose hearts he broke.

            “I think she was expecting that I would clutch her handkerchief and cry all night as I breathed in her smell and missed her.”

            “So she expected you to be like Pontmercy?”

            Courfeyrac snorted. “Have you ever cried over a woman, Enjolras?”

            “Only Liberty and her oppression,” he said, and Courfeyrac slapped him across the face with the handkerchief.

            “You’re insufferable.”

            “I’m dedicated.”

            “Is that what you tell your parents? That you haven’t been with a woman because you’re dedicated to Liberty?”

            “That’s why I don’t speak to my parents.”

            Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. He tucked poor Florence’s handkerchief into the front pocket of Enjolras’ jacket in a way that the pink writing stuck out, making it clear that it once belonged to a woman. “Just wear this and none of the ladies on the street will ever bother you again. They’ll think you’re already taken, and it’ll break all their hearts. And Grantaire’s, possibly.”

            Enjolras went to try some of Bahorel’s fighting techniques on them, but was stopped by a fit of congested coughing. Courfeyrac pulled Enjolras into his arms as he coughed, letting him rest his head against his shoulder until he stopped shaking.

            “Mon dieu, I believe that you’re actually allergic to women,” he teased, kissing Enjolras on the forehead. He pushed Enjolras back into his chair, smoothing down his hair. “You sound awful. And you have to go speak with Joly this afternoon about arrangements to speak at the medical college, remember? He’ll have a fit if you show up sounding like that. Would you like me to go instead? I’m having dinner with Jehan, but your health . . .”

            “No, no. Have your poetic romance. Go to dinner. I’ll handle Joly. I’ll try to rest a bit, and drink some tea.”

            “Good boy. Oh, I have an idea! You stay right here, don’t move. I will go find something spicy to add to this delicious omelet I’m making for you, and it’ll clear your poor nose in no time.” He kissed Enjolras again, this time on the top of his head, before ordering him to stay put once more and skipping outside.

            Enjolras took Florence’s handkerchief out of his pocket, and sniffed at it. It smelled like rose perfume, tickling his nose and making him sneeze. Which cleared out his sinuses a little bit, at least.

            “Thank you, Florence,” he mumbled to himself, before slowing pushing himself to his feet and setting the handkerchief on top of his dresser, where had he put the other two.

* * *

iv. _with the initials J.M.B on it_

Whatever spices Courfeyrac had put into that omelet did the trick, because Enjolras’ nose had started running, and it hadn’t stopped since. The bitter chill that nipped at his face as he walked to Joly’s didn’t help either. By the time he got to the door, the sleeve of his coat was stained from wiping at his nose with it. He rolled up his sleeve and fluffed his hair and got in a few more sniffles before knocking on the door.

            Bossuet answered the door. This didn’t really surprise Enjolras, as he knew, like everyone knew, that Bossuet and Joly shared everything. Including a beautiful woman named Musichetta, who Enjolras heard laughing from the kitchen. That didn’t surprise him either, because the three of them were together more often than not, and Joly had an unusually large bed that could fit all three of them. Enjolras never asked about their relationship, not because he didn’t care, but because what Joly and Bossuet did was up to them, and it wasn’t his place to pry.

            Joly, however, never saw his place when it came to others’ health. He came flying out of the kitchen, skidding to a stop when he saw Enjolras. “Enjolras! You look terrible. Do you have the flu?”

            “I’m surprised you didn’t diagnose consumption,” Enjolras said, half-joking. Joly’s hand was on his forehead in an instant.

            “You think you have consumption? Why are you here? You should be in bed!”

            “I was joking.”

            “Consumption is not a joking manner, Enjolras!”

            Bossuet snuck over to Joly’s side, laying a comforting hand on his waist. “He was making a joke, Joly, though he’s lacking skills in humor. The fact that you’ve even making a joke, Enjolras, is a little concerning. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just a head cold.”

Joly nodded, but didn’t come any closer. “Either way, sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.”

Enjolras sat down next to the fireplace. Joly always kept a fire going in the winter, and they would often gather there for Christmas, the entire house smelling like peppermint and ringing with voices. Joly’s house was a place of warmth and happiness, and Enjolras wished he could curl up underneath a blanket and sleep next to the fire.

            But: “You said you had some connections at the medical school I could speak with,” he said, the hoarseness of his voice wrecking the businesslike tone.

            “Of course. I made you a list of those I know to be safe to speak with, plus a few potentials to check out.”

            “I’ll send someone after the next meeting. I’ll go myself, perhaps.”

            “Only if you’re feeling better. You can’t go to the medical school with the flu, some understudy might try to use you for experimentation. Speaking of, I’ve recently picked up some lozenges that are supposed to do wonders for an aching throat. Would you like some?” He didn’t even wait for an answer before calling, “Bossuet, would you get me those lozenges from the cabinet?”

            “You’re too kind, Joly.”

            “ _You’re_ too terrible at self-preservation.” Joly sat beside Enjolras, feeling his neck for any swelling. His hands were warm, and Enjolras wished Joly would hold his hands or rub his warm fingers up and down his arms, instead of poking him in the neck. “I can listen to your chest, if you’d like. Just to ensure that it’s nothing serious. Like consumption.”

            A loud crash came from down the hall, followed by a sheepish call of “um . . Joly? The medicine cabinet just fell down.”

            Joly sighed, feeling Enjolras forehead again before getting up and going to help clean up the mess Bossuet had made.

            Enjolras sniffled as quietly as he could. The fire was pleasant, but it was making his nose run at an alarming speed. He quickly wiped his nose with the back of his wrist and then folded his hands in his lap, afraid to touch anything.

            He heard a laugh, and saw Musichetta poking her head out of the kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

            “Sorry,” Enjolras said.

            “You’re sick, there’s nothing to be sorry for. _I’m_ sorry if my boys are stressing you out. Stay for dinner? I can make some stew.”

            Enjolras shook his head quickly. “No, thank you. I should probably get home before it gets colder. And before Joly uses his entire supply of cold remedies on me.”

            “I understand.” She handed him the list of possible names that Joly had left on the kitchen table. “You can just go, I’ll tell him that you said goodbye.”

            “What about the throat lozenges?” Joly was an excellent friend, the least Enjolras could do was try one of his weird methods.

            Musichetta rolled her eyes. “They taste terrible.”

            “Thank you, then.” Enjolras coughed into his sleeve, wincing. His coat was going to need a thorough washing after this. He might even have to burn it.

            “Wait.” Musichetta vanished back into the house, returning with a handkerchief in her hand. “I think you need this.”

            “I’m fine,” Enjolras said, with a pathetic sniffle tacked onto the end of his words.

            “Joly would have a fit if he saw you using your coat sleeve. Just for your sake, take it.” When Enjolras did, she grinned. “And for mine, because I really wanted to get rid of it.”

            Enjolras tucked it into his pocket. “Why is that?”

            “Joly insisted that we all get them with each first letter of our names embroidered on them.” Enjolras took it back out to look at it. J.M.B. “And it would always be awkward when people asked why I had something with other people’s initials on it, and I’d have to explain, and that’s not something that people always take nicely too, the three of us being together. So thank you for taking it.”

            “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

            Musichetta patted his cheek, and closed the door just as another crashing sound rang through the house.

* * *

v. _torn at the edges_

Enjolras walked home quickly, wanting to get under a blanket and make tea and work on some pamphlets. He also, still, wanted to rip his head off, starting with his nose. He was walking so briskly, head down against the wind, that he didn’t notice the person he nearly knocked off the sidewalk until they yelled, “hey!”

            “I’m sorry,” Enjolras said quickly. The person grabbed him arm, and Enjolras tensed. He wasn’t in the mood, or condition, for a fight. Maybe they’d kill him and put him out of his sick misery.

            Then they squeezed his arm, and Enjolras looked up to see that it was Feuilly. “You’re in a hurry, I take it?”

            “Just wanted to get home,” Enjolras mumbled, hoping Feuilly would take the hint.

            He sort of did. “Mon dieu, Enjolras, you sound terrible! Let me walk you home.”

            Enjolras wanted nothing more than to suddenly be cured of this cold, because this was his chance to talk one-to-one with Feuilly, who he truly admired, and he could barely talk because of the ache in his throat and headache pain clouding his vision.

            “You don’t have to.”

            “I do.” Feuilly placed his hand on Enjolras’ back, pushing him along. “Have you talked to Joly? About the medical community, I mean? Not about you being ill, though that might not be such a bad idea either.”

            “I have. About both. I was just there. Things are going well, on the _Amis_ side of things. We’ll have allies in the right places, when the time comes.”

            “I want to make sure we still have _you_ when the time comes,” Feuilly said when they reached Enjolras apartment, taking his hand away from his back with one lasts soothing pat. “We worry about you, Enjolras. You need to take better care of yourself. The revolution has others to look after it.”

            “I’m terrible,” Enjolras admitted. “I don’t know how to take care of myself.”

            Feuilly smiled gently. “Do you want me to come up with you?”

            “You don’t have to.”

            Feuilly didn’t take that for an answer, and followed Enjolras up the stairs. “No, I do. You’re right, you’re terrible at self-care and I’d really rather you didn’t die because I left you on your own.”

            Enjolras sat down on his couch at Feuilly’s insistence, while he went into the kitchen, looking around for cups. “It’s freezing in here,” Feuilly said. “Don’t you ever think about starting a fire?”

            “No wood.”

            Feuilly raised an eyebrow. “Buy some? And don’t tell me that’s ‘too bourgeoisie,’ even I have firewood.”

            “I really admire you, Feuilly.” Enjolras pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling a faint but definite heat. “I’m sorry. I have a fever. Ignore anything I may say.” He coughed lightly into his elbow. “But I do admire you.”

            “Thank you, Enjolras.” Feuilly handed him a cup of tea and squeezed his hand. “We can have more intellectual conversations you’re feeling better. I admire you, too. We all do. So get some rest, and get better. I’d tell you to stay in bed, but I know you. You probably have a day of activities planned for tomorrow.”

            “Going over a speech with Combeferre in the morning and doing some modeling for Grantaire in the afternoon.”

            “What?” Feuilly gasped, badly stifling an amused grin.

            “He wants to paint my hair.” Enjolras yawned. “Says it’ll be good for practicing texture or something of that sort.”

            “Of course.” Feuilly ruffled Enjolras’ curls. “Well, get some sleep. Don’t want to miss your afternoon with Grantaire.” Enjolras looked too tired to grasp the cup of steaming tea, so Feuilly placed it on the table. He found a blanket to drape over Enjolras’ shoulders and stood behind him for a moment, ensure of what he was supposed to do next.

            “Well, goodnight,” he said awkwardly, heading for the door. He paused when he saw the pile of various handkerchief lying on top of the dresser. “What are all these?”

            “Huh?” Enjolras weakly raised his head. “Oh, people have been giving me handkerchiefs since I got sick. I don’t know why.”

            Feuilly pulled his own handkerchief out of his pocket. It wasn’t much, more a cloth really. More like half a piece of cloth. But he set it with the others anyway. “I’ve added to your collection, then. Feel better, Enjolras.”

            “Thank you, Feuilly.”

            He closed the door behind him and Enjolras threw himself across the couch, kicking off his boots. He was cold and his throat hurt and his nose was itching like hell. His sneezes were still squeaky.

            _But at least I have nice hair,_ he reminded himself, before falling asleep.

           

* * *

vi. _plain white_

“Bless you,” Combeferre said without looking up for the speech.

            “Excuse me?” Enjolras glanced up at his best friend. “I haven’t sneezed.”

            Combeferre held up a finger and raised an eyebrow. And within ten seconds, Enjolras sneezed so hard that he nearly tipped his chair over backwards.

            “Bless you,” Combeferre said again.

            “How did you do that?” Enjolras asked in shock. He had grown up with Combeferre back in the south of course, and they knew each other well, so well that Courfeyrac claimed their ability to understand each other was scary, but he never though Combeferre could predict his movements that hadn’t happened yet.

            Combeferre took off his glasses. “Well, your nostrils always flare a bit right before you sneeze. They also do that when you’re really angry, but I didn’t think my speech could be that awful. And your sniffling has been getting worse in the past few minutes, so I just concluded.” He smiled. “I know you, Enjolras.”

            “Courfs right, it’s uncanny.”

            “You just have unusually expressive nostrils, that’s all.”

            Enjolras put down the speech, resting his head in his hands. “What am I’m going to do next, then?”

            “You’re going to tell me that you’ve had enough for the morning and then go back to bed.”

            “Wrong.”

            “Oh, but if I say so, then it must be true.” Combeferre grabbed Enjolras from underneath his arms and hauled him out of his chair. He dragged him to his bedroom, tossing him unceremoniously onto the bed. He made up for it by tucking Enjolras under the covers and getting him a cold cloth to lay across his forehead.

            “I have things to do,” Enjolras protested weakly.

            “And recovering is one of them. Your top priority. As a doctor, I order it. Just rest, and you’ll be giving passionate speeches soon enough, so your expressive nostrils can get back to their usual use.”

            Giving up, Enjolras closed his eyes. Combeferre leaned down to kiss his forehead. He stood watch for a moment, waiting until Enjolras’ raspy breathing evened out. He thought he was asleep, until he heard Enjolras sniffle quietly, and saw his nose twitch.

            “Bless you?” he guessed, and Enjolras groaned.

            “I was _going_ to, but _you_ brought it up and it’s stuck now.”

            “My sincerest apologies. You work on that and try to get some rest. I’ll go out and get you some soup in exchange.” He kissed Enjolras again, leaving a handkerchief on the bedside table, since he knew he was going to need it eventually.

            He heard Enjolras sneeze as he was heading out the door, and smiled to himself. He hated seeing his best friend ill, but on the bright side, it did make him more predictable.

* * *

vii. _paint stained_

Grantaire hadn’t really been expecting Enjolras to show up. And even if he had, he wasn’t expecting him to show up fifteen minutes after it started pouring outside, coughing as he knocked on the door and overall a shivering, sniffling mess.

            “Jesus,” he said.

            “Is that what you call me now?” Enjolras croaked.

            “You’re an idiot, that’s what. Get inside.” He helped Enjolras shrug out of his wet coat, throwing it by the door. He pulled Enjolras into an embrace, rubbing at his forearms, and Enjolras’ lack of protest scared him. Even with their newfound relationship, Enjolras still jumped when Grantaire tried to brush his fingers or stroke his hair, before looking over and remembering that he didn’t despise Grantaire anymore. “You’ve been sick all week. You knew you were sick. So why are you out in weather like this?”

            “You wanted to paint me.”

            “My painting can wait.” He sat Enjolras down on the couch, going to his bedroom and tearing all the blankets from his bed. He arranged them around Enjolras’ shoulders before kneeling on the floor in front of him, taking his hands.

            “Also I hadn’t seen you in three days,” Enjolras went on. “And I wanted to see you, but Combeferre was threatening to keep me in my bed for the rest of the day, so I escaped.” He coughed, the sound wet and hacking.

            Grantaire squeezed some water out of his curls. “Well, now you sound like you have the flu, so you’re not leaving here until it clears up outside.”

            “Okay,” Enjolras said tiredly, but he sounded content. He tugged on Grantaire’s hand until he joined him on the couch, readjusting himself to lay his head in Grantaire’s lap. “I’m sorry. I kind of lose all boundaries when I’m ill. And I’m cold.”

            “I don’t mind.”

            Enjolras closed his eyes and Grantaire stroked his hair for a while, both of them content with the silence.

            “I can get up and sit somewhere else, if you want to paint me,” Enjolras finally said, starting to push himself up.

            “No, no. I’ll do it some other time. You’ll still be beautiful whenever we do it.”

            “I guess I’m not beautiful now.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you are.” He kissed Enjolras’ nose, ignoring how red and raw it was. “It’s just, I was going to give you the picture when it was finished, and I don’t know if you want a picture of yourself with the flu.”

            “It’s a cold. But thank you. We can wait, then.” He settled back against Grantaire’s legs, sighing as he closed his eyes. He shivered, and Grantaire pulled the blanket tighter around him, rubbing at his arms again.

            “’Taire?” Enjolras asked sleepily after a few minutes.

            “Yes, Enjolras?”

            “Do you think my sneezes are stupid sounding?”

            “What kind of question is that?”

            “A good one. Because they’re really loud and high-pitched, and my father told me that I sound like a kitten and kittens are stupid, they’re weak and little and I . . . I don’t even like kittens.” He finished with a weak sniffle. Grantaire felt Enjolras’ forehead, wishing he could blame what he was hearing on a fever. But he knew that Enjolras’ father had always beaten him down, the verbal abuse constant throughout his childhood, and he knew that nothing Enjolras could have ever done would have made his father proud.

            “No,” he said. “No, Enjolras, they’re not stupid sounding. It’s nothing something you can ever control, and nothing anyone can judge you for. And no one does. I don’t, trust me. You could sneeze out little French flags and I still wouldn’t judge you.”

            “I don’t think that anyone would be shocked if I actually did that.”

            “Of course not.” He squeezed Enjolras’ hand tighter. “Do you believe me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.” He kissed his forehead, and then his nose again. Enjolras’ nose crinkled up when he did so. He pushed Grantaire away quickly, sitting up and sneezing harshly into his hands. And then six more times, before it turned into a violent coughing fit. Grantaire rubbed his back the entire time, until Enjolras was done and lying flat on his back, gasping.

            “Do you have a handkerchief?” Grantaire asked, listening to him sniffle tiredly.

            Enjolras nodded toward his coat, lying in a wet heap by the door. Grantaire picked it up, shaking it upside down until a wad of handkerchiefs fell to the floor. “I know you’re sick, but seven handkerchiefs seems excessive.”

            “They’re from our friends. I’m never remembering to carry one with me, so they’ve all been generous to give me one of theirs.”

            “We have a friend named Florence?”

            “One of Courferyrac’s ladies.” Enjolras reached out to take that one, pausing with it halfway to his face. “No. I can’t use that one. It’s a symbol of Courfeyrac and his ridiculous love for woman and I can’t . . . no, not that one either,” he said, as Grantaire offered the one from Bahorel. “The blood on it, I think it’s from a fistfight, and you know how proud he is so those. If I use it, I’ll have to wash it and the stain will come out, and it won’t remind me of Bahorel anymore.”

            “This? It’s looks like a rag.” Grantaire waved the handkerchief from Feuilly, even it could even be called that.

            “No!” Enjolras ripped it from his hands, looking offended. “Feuilly hardly has anything of his own. I can’t use this.”

            “Can you use any of them?” Grantaire finally asked. Biting his lip, Enjolras looked through the remaining ones, rubbing them between his fingers and turning each one over.

            “No,” he decided. “You don’t understand, each of these represents the person who gave them to me so well . . . the flowers for Jehan and the blood for Bahorel and the faint smell of ladies’ perfume for Courfeyrac. I’d rather just keep them somewhere nice, to remember my friends by, always.”

            “I think you’re missing the point of handkerchiefs.” Grantaire grinned. Then he got up, slipping into his bedroom. He returned with a paint-stained handkerchief, splattered with red and green. “I’d normally give you a nicer one, but since I know you won’t be using it, here.”

            Enjolras added it to his collection, leaning back on the couch and admiring it. “We have strange friends.”

            “We do.”

            “They’re all so different. Yet we all must have something in common.”

            “We all love you,” Grantaire said, slipping his fingers through Enjolras’.

            “I was going to say helping the oppressed.” He paused, shutting his eyes for a moment and then opening them again. “But okay. Thank you. I love you all too.”

            It was the closest he was going to get to saying “I love you, Grantaire” without clamming up afterwards, so Grantaire took it. Enjolras rested his head against Grantaire’s shoulder, curling up against his side. His breathing, though still rough, started to even and slow.

            “Enjolras?”

            “Hmm?”

            “You do kind of sound like a kitten.”

            “But our friends don’t mind it?”

            “Our friends don’t mind it at all. Let all your lovely handkerchiefs be a sign of that; they don’t care what you sound like or look like or what you do, they’ll always support you.”

            “And you don’t mind?”

            “Not in the slightest.”

            Enjolras hummed happily, pressing closer to Grantaire. He felt awful, and it was most definitely turning into the flu, and it was raining outside, but he didn’t mind. Because his friends cared. Jehan cared. Bahorel cared. Courfeyrac cared. Joly and Bossuet and even Musichetta cared. Feuilly cared. Combeferre cared, and understood him between than anyone else on Earth. And _Grantaire_ cared.

            Enjolras let his eyes slip closed, because _they cared_ and that was really all that would ever matter.

**Author's Note:**

> more Roman numerals:  
> i. This was my first time attempting to write sickfic, and also my first time writing anything with Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta, as well as Feuilly and Bahorel. So I hope I did okay on all fronts.  
> ii. I really want to write a fic now in which Enjolras is literally allergic to woman, thanks Courfeyrac.  
> iii. I'm on tumblr @ lamarque-getset-go , come say hi and talk about Enjolras being an adorarable kitten with me.  
> iv. Have a lovely day.


End file.
